


Revival

by thistlee



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Other, aaaaah this one's kinda old too, but i really wanted to put these up! i'm proud of my crowleys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 17:26:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8169920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thistlee/pseuds/thistlee
Summary: The last thing Emilia Crowley could remember was the assassin's face. That, and the letter to her husband she had been forced to sign.Why, oh why must she be brought back?





	

Twenty two years ago, everything was dark.

What they said about death wasn't true. There was no “light”, especially not in murder. There was the numbing cold of decreasing function, then silence, then darkness. Death is more like sleep— either peacefully or painfully departing from consciousness and embarking on an eternal journey.

But many are ripped from their solace in void. Many regain a soul to inhabit their decomposed and mangled bodies, rising from the depths to become soldiers for another cause.

Perhaps that disturbance is an even worse fate than death.

Perhaps that disturbance is an even worse fate than _life_.

The first to return to her was hearing. Voices broke into the silence. All kinds of voices– ragged, lilting, husky, sweet, bitter, old. All of them were barking orders or calling out for supplies. A deep and mellow voice drawled out names, gradually getting louder in volume as the source grew closer. Charcoal scratching across a wooden surface came after each name.

Three things returned just then. Taste, smell, touch. The air was heavy and choking, like rain coming after smoke. Rot slammed into her nostrils, making her gasp and breathe in the horrible air again. She hissed slightly, attempting to move around. Her hands clawed around wildly, but she stopped as she stabbed into moldy wood. The moisture coated her fingers and a worm wriggled across her hand. Panicked, she moved her other hand to her body, but she relaxed upon feeling the smooth silk of her funeral dress.

Her funeral dress?

Everything went white. She squeezed her eyes shut, and brought her arm above her head to shield herself from whatever that was. Hesitantly, she opened her eyes.

“Stars,” she whispered. _Silverpine’s_ stars.

Was she finally… home? Awake? It looked so different. Everything seemed off. There were strange machines rumbling and bubbling with slimy substance. Banshees and Val’kyr glided past, and–

Wait. Spirits? Ghosts? She could see ghosts. Was she going mad? She reached upwards, rubbing her eyes. No. They were still there. They were _real_.

Dark buildings, large and imposing, surrounded her. She could hear the buzzing chatter and laughter of an inn. The fizzing and popping of an alchemist’s shop. The confessions of a chapel. The debate of a town hall. The flowing of a fountain. The–

“Emilia C.,” an old and weary voice broke into her thoughts, “please rise for evaluation.”

Emilia’s bright glowing eyes focused on a rather malnourished man in front of her. She nodded, grunting as she heard her joints and bones crack with the task of standing.

After a long while of awkward staring, the man scribbled on his board. “Rogue,” he noted and continued, “welcome to the Forsaken. Go and speak to General Kareth over by the Mission Board, and if you have further concerns, you can contact–”

“Wait,” Emilia interrupted, earning a glare from the man. “Where is my husband?”

“Who _is_ your husband?”

“Lord Darius Crowley.”

The man fell silent, as if she had spoken a foreign tongue. He coughed, nervously shifting his weight. “He is not with us.”

“He’s– He's dead?” Emilia’s voice was barely a whisper.

“He is alive. We are dead.”

Emilia’s brows furrowed in confusion. “But… how?”

“ _Un_ dead.” He corrected himself, nodding to confirm his words.

Before Emilia could say anything more, a powerful and bitter woman's voice rose from behind the man. “Undertaker!” she barked, causing him to turn around.

“Yes, my Lady?”

Emilia leaned to the side, breath catching in her throat upon seeing the woman. Donning full dark purple chainmail and leather, not one bit of her body was exposed. A bow and full quiver were slung across her back, noting that she was a ranger of some kind. Bright red eyes glinted from underneath her hood of purple velvet. 

“Why are you taking so long on this one?” The newer woman hissed, before resting her sight on Emilia.

“Forgive me, miss.” Emilia piped up. “I had asked him a question.”

“ _What_ question?”

“About… my husband.” She forced out.

“Whom?”

A sense of danger pounded against Emilia's entire being. She swallowed her fear, and spoke defiantly. “Lord Darius Crowley.”

A mixture of anger and confusion briefly flashed across the woman's face. Once that dissipated, a smirk tugged on the woman’s lips. It grew wider as the scheme in her head grew broader and ever so devious. Suddenly, she reached back, tugging off her hood. White hair glimmered in the pale moonlight, and blue skin shone brilliantly. She clamped both hands on Emilia's shoulders, staring straight into her eyes.  
  
“Come, new one.” She spoke calmly. “Let us walk together.”


End file.
